“Mr. Brice,” Herr Korner continued, “has never heard of the Count von Kalbach.  No, of course.  We at Jena had, and all Germany.  Many of us of the Burschenschaft will bear to the grave the marks of his Schlager.  Von Kalbach went to Bonn, that university of the aristocrats, where he was worshipped.  When he came to Berlin with his sister, crowds would gather to look at them.  They were like Wodan and Freya.  ’Donner’!” exclaimed Herr Korner, “there is something in blood, when all is said.  He was as straight and strong as an oak of the Black Forest, and she as fair as a poplar.  It is so with the Pomeranians.

“It was in the year ’47, when Carl Richter was gone home to Berlin before his last semester, to see his father:  One fine morning von Kalbach rode in at the Brandenburg gate on a great black stallion.  He boasted openly that day that none of the despised ‘Burschenschaft’ dare stand before him.  And Carl Richter took up the challenge.  Before night all Berlin had heard of the temerity of the young Liberal of the Jena ‘Burschenschaft’.  To our shame be it said, we who knew and loved Carl likewise feared for him.

“Carl chose for his second Ebhardt, a man of our own Germanian Club at Jena, since killed in the Breite Strasse.  And if you will believe me, my friend.  I tell you that Richter came to the glade at daybreak smoking his pipe.  The place was filled, the nobles on one side and the Burschenschaft on the other, and the sun coming up over the trees.  Richter would not listen to any of us, not even the surgeon.  He would not have the silk wound on his arm, nor the padded breeches, nor the neck covering —­Nothing!  So Ebhardt put on his gauntlets and peaked cap, and his apron with the device of the Germanians.

“There stood the Count in his white shirt in the pose of a statue.  And when it was seen that Richter likewise had no protection, but was calmly smoking the little short pipe, with a charred bowl, a hush fell upon all.  At the sight of the pipe von Kalbach ground his heel in the turf, and when the word was given he rushed at Richter like a wild beast.  You, my friend, who have never heard the whistle of sharp Schlager cannot know the song which a skilled arm draws from the blade.  It was music that morning:  You should have seen the noble’s mighty strokes—­’Prim und Second und Terz und Quart’.  You would have marked how Richter met him at every blow.  Von Kalbach never once took his eyes from the blue smoke from the bowl.  He was terrible in his fury, and I shiver now to think how we of the Burschenschaft trembled when we saw that our champion was driven back a step, and then another.  You must know that it is a lasting disgrace to be forced over one’s own line.  It seemed as if we could not bear the agony.  And then, while we counted out the last seconds of the half, came a snap like that of a whip’s lash, and the bowl of Richter’s pipe lay smouldering on the grass.  The noble had cut the stem as clean as